


The One I Trust

by celestialenigma



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: A bit of drama, Fluff, Joan of Arc - Freeform, M/M, Mild Smut, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:45:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3775969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialenigma/pseuds/celestialenigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England has a secret - one that France has kept for well over a thousand years. Despite their squabbles and their vicious battles, England trusts France.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One I Trust

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back again. This time with a story that is 100% FrUk. Canada makes a small appearance too, but not for long. So does Joan of Arc.
> 
> This story is M/M with a main character being transgender. I see him as male and debated whether to even mention the trans thing. But I figured I would just in case it triggers people or people don't want to read stories with descriptions of "female" genitalia (but with a more gender-neutral spin on it or so I hope).
> 
> I got inspired by all the fanart where England is shorter and slighter than France and looks very androgynous but still dressed very much like a man. Usually they're supposed to be the same height and roughly the same build too. So my mind just randomly threw this at me one day.
> 
> I hope the flow is okay and not too choppy.
> 
> Also braies are basically old-timey underwear. Just so you know. It is applicable. And the word 'fop' means: a man who is concerned with his clothes and appearance in an affected and excessive way; a dandy.

Branches hit chubby cheeks, cutting crimson lines into soft flesh as the small nation ran. The child tripped over the roots of trees, little feet cut up so bad, bare and exposed. In the forest, barely a mile behind, was the pursuer, craving and salivating for land. A little island nation with ocean waters that crashed along white cliffs.

 

The child's brothers had fled, left for their territories up north. They'd said they needed to protect their own land. Left their defenceless sibling, who'd they'd never really liked anyway.

 

Clouds covered the stars and moon, shrouded the woods in a blanket of pure darkness. The child saw the opening of a cave, low to the ground and mostly covered by bushes and leapt in, rolling to avoid a nasty impact with the stone ground.

 

Picking pebbles out from skinned knees, the child sniffled and refused to cry. A nation didn't cry but remained tough in the face of danger and harsh times.

 

The small stone hollow must have been a home for animals at some point in the past, because there were dried leaves and pine needles piled and dense near the back. Enough to provide a bed that was a least somewhat comfortable.

 

And so, the nation called Albion laid down to sleep off the persistent weariness that hung thick on slender shoulders.

 

#

 

The crunching of boots on leaves and stones was enough for Albion's eyes snap open and to make the youngster skitter back to become as small and invisible as possible. The light of day sent two dim streams into the grotto, casting faint warmth over the child's battered toes.

 

“Oh little one. Come on out! I know you are around here,” called a somewhat familiar voice.

 

Where had Albion heard it before?

 

Oh yes, it was that older child. That boy, Gaul. With his long blond hair tied back in a ribbon and irritating smirk upon his face.

 

No way was Albion moving after hearing that.

 

“The Roman Empire has went back to his encampment, he's not here in this forest anymore,” said Gaul once more before he peeked his head into Albion's hiding place.

 

Shrieking, Albion raced forth, slamming a tiny body into Gaul, who was, though also a child, considerably taller. Tiny fists flailed and smacked into Gaul's chest before being restrained.

 

“Calm down. I could have found you earlier had I wanted. I made sure to keep Rome off of your trail.”

 

Albion pouted, “Likely story.”

 

Letting go of the small child's wrists, Gaul looked at the fists pointedly before moving back.

 

“It is true though. He tried looking for you all night and could not find you, so he has given up for now,” said Gaul, leaning against a tree and yawning, closing his eyes under which had black bags.

 

“And why didn't you just tell him where to find me, if you could figure out where I was so easily?” asked Albion, darting a hand out to slap, just once, at Gaul.

 

“Why do I need a reason?” asked Gaul, examining his fingernails as if they were fascinating.

 

“Because nobody does anything without expecting some sort of reward,” said the child with arms crossed and stormed away.

 

“Perhaps I want you to myself to bother. No need for Roman Empire to find you and do that himself.”

 

Albion had a limp and hissed faintly at every painful step. Gaul stepped up and scooped Albion up into his arms, slinging the child over a shoulder. Of course, the smaller nation wanted none of that and kicked, screamed, punched and even tried to bite.

 

Gaul set the child down upon a rock that bordered a slowly flowing river, “You are amusing. Now strip. I shall find some items to help clean your wounds.”

 

The child did no such thing but instead sat, cross-legged, upon the rather flat stoney surface and did not move. There was no way that the child would remove even a single piece of clothing.

 

Some fifteen minutes later, Gaul flounced into view, strands of hair freed from their tie and blew in the breeze. The boy sung a jaunty tune and held out a part of his cloak in a bowl shape, in which were a number of leaves, berries and various other plant-life.

 

“How am I to clean you if you are covered in cloth?” sighed Gaul as if truly put out.

 

“Just wash my feet and then let me go,” demanded Albion.

 

After he put down the cloak and folded the cloth over the leaves inside, Gaul strolled over casually. Albion clutched as many folds of clothing as possible and looked around for an escape. Gaul, stronger and faster, simply pulled down Albion's puffy white pants.

 

Albion crumpled to the ground, pulling the white gown to cover the newly bared private parts, “Don't look. Idiot.”

 

“Oh. I'd always wondered. So you're a girl,” mused Gaul a hand under his own chin thoughtfully.

 

“I am not. I'm a boy,” said Albion and gritted his teeth which he glared daggers.

 

“I am not sure who told you that but those parts are those of a girl. I'm very knowledgeable you know,” said Gaul, overly confident and oh so irritating.

 

“I don't care. I. AM. A. BOY,” shouted Albion, cheeks reddened.

 

Something happened then, or rather, didn't. Gaul blinked three times, nodded his head and then said, “Well you still need to take your clothes off so that you can get clean.”

 

“P-pervert,” mumbled Albion, doing as he was bid in any case and made sure to cover his lower parts as much as possible.

 

“Please,” said Gaul who waved his hand back and forth and sat down in front of Albion's rock, “I can have any man or woman I wanted. Why would I want a little boy?”

 

Using a flat stone as a plate on which to mash the deep verdant leaves, Gaul smirked up at Albion.

 

“You're a boy still yourself. Just a freakishly tall one,” said Albion.

 

“One that saved you from The Roman Empire. So unless you want my efforts of leading Rome away to be in vain by dying of some sort of filth related ailment, you will get in the river and clean yourself.”

 

Little Albion muttered to himself as he lowered his body in the frigid waters. Still, when he was turned away from Gaul, he couldn't help but smile ever so slightly as he shivered. Maybe everything would work out in the end, despite this other annoying nation knowing Albion's secret.

 

#

 

Albion didn't see Gaul for a while after that. Only here and there. Even after the Romans went away and were vanquished from his lands, more or less, they hadn't ever really had a strong grip on the island, as much as they tried.

 

Yet not once did Gaul ever mention the secret he knew. Perhaps he had forgotten?

 

Eventually, Gaul became France and Albion became England. They changed in name but not in personality.

 

That bugger France always came around to harass little England who never seemed to grow an inch to save his life. He was always so helplessly small while France was even taller than he'd been when they'd first met and had the body of a teenager.

 

It didn't help that France was one of the nations that he secretly wanted to look like. Long hair, which was the way all of the most fashionable men were styled. So silky smooth. Such soft skin with the barest traces of facial hair wanting to grow out.

 

The robe though...that was a different story.

 

England remembered that robe. So much like a dress.

 

England hadn't worn the little red robe that France had given him. Kept it atop a chest at the end of his bed, folded carefully. He hadn't wanted to give it away. Kept it there for two weeks before finally he gave in and put it on.

 

A dress. God in heaven but it was like a dress.

 

He tore it off, shredded it in long strands of dark red that fell in a pile on the cold stone floor.

 

It made him feel like a woman; or a girl as it were, since he was still a child. He worried that if somebody saw him like this than they'd know the gender he was born.

 

“England!” called France, who hadn't even bothered to knock.

 

At least England hadn't heard if the other nation had knocked. Perhaps France had followed that basic rule of politeness.

 

“What do you want frog?” shouted England and once again found himself in a position that required him to hide his body from France.

 

He backed away and tried to get on the other side of the bed, thankful that he still had on his loose-fitting cotton braies.

 

“I wanted to see if you'd tried on the robe I had brought for you, but I see now that you've ruined it. Too bad. It was made of such fine material too,” said France, then pouted and let the fabric run between his fingers.

 

“Haven't you ever heard of privacy?” shrieked the boy and snatched a sheet from off of his bed and wrapped it around himself.

 

“Please, I've seen you naked before and you still have your undergarments on. Why did you ruin this?”

 

Once he hopped up and sat on the edge of the bed, England crossed his arms, “It smelled like frogs.”

 

“So funny, that same insult over and over. You know that the men in my country truly do wear these clothes. I am not trying to trick you.”

 

“As if I'd fall for your pranks anyway, prissy girly robe wearing man.”

 

Fabric picked up and placed in a pile on the table, France sat beside England on the bed and put his hand on the much smaller child's shoulder.

 

“Your clothes don't make your gender. It's how you feel inside that matters,” said France.

 

England thought that sometimes, France could be very wise. Then he would go and say something such as, “And good thing, because when I wear this I feel just like a pretty flower petal dancing in the wind but I am still a man.”

 

England rolled his eyes and slid down off of his bed, “I will just stick with my tweed pants thank you very much.”

 

Flopping down to lay on the bed, France placed his wrist over his eyes and sighed, “So boring. You refuse to be fashionable and your hair is so dull.”

 

An unlit candle was tossed at France and England smiled when he heard a yelp, “If you would recall, you cut my hair like this.”

 

“Such a cruel child.”

 

#

 

They fought. A lot. In spite of it, England would still, every now and then get along with the Frenchman. Perhaps his occasional bouts of friendship with the other nation was because of their fighting.

 

Such a notion sounded bizarre and even made England question his sanity. However when it came down to it, France knew his secret.

 

France knew what truly was between England's legs and yet treated him like an equal. Like a man worthy of battle and not a woman in need of protection.

 

Not that women weren't fearsome. However the men, those born that way in mind and body, didn't seem to think so. Either that or men were scared of women, deep down inside and didn't want them to rise to their full potential.

 

So perhaps that was one of the factors that ultimately resulted in England's decision.

 

Some of the members of his government were having talks with France's boss. They'd had dinner at a large and lavish table, candles lit the stoney walled room and flickered faintly. England was pleasantly full and his eyelids drooped with the sleepy buzz of alcohol.

 

France stood from the table, placed his serviette beside his plate and excused himself. England watched, from the corner of his eye, the sensual sway to that fop's hips. It made England burn.

 

He also stood. Their bosses were too involved in their chats and usual bickering that went on between the two countries to bother with England’s departure.

 

A short jog down the hall, far more dimly lit saw England fully caught up to the other man. With a hand on France's shoulder, he spun the man around.

 

England was shorter, of course, though not much a whole lot. It was enough for England to be forced to look up into those blue eyes. Hands clutched into both sides of France's silk coat, which probably had some other fancy name that England didn't care to remember, he tugged the Frenchman to meet his eyes.

 

“Angleterre? What are you-?” started France before he was snarled at.

 

“Fuck me.”

 

“Quoi?” said France, as always, falling back into his native language when frazzled or too lazy to remember English.

 

Though he felt that his face had begun to turn red, England looked to the ground and grit his teeth. He didn't know how to explain himself without appearing weak. The truth was that he was a virgin. There hadn't ever been anybody he could trust with his secret. Not a soul that he could allow to see him naked. How could he put that into words in a way which would not be mocked by his longtime rival and enemy?

 

England should not have even been there, in that hallway, hands on France. But he had been so horny for so long and wanted to experience sex. His libido was made even more raging by the beer he'd consumed, alcohol flowing through his veins.

 

“Perhaps I have imbibed too much wine this evening for I am certain you asked me to 'fuck you'”, said France and ran a single finger down England's neck which caused the shorter man to shiver.

 

“Yes. I did in fact. Do you have a problem hearing?” said England who tried to snarl and sound intimidating, but his voice quavered when France's hand rested on his hip.

 

“As much as my reputation might suggest otherwise, I do not wish to take advantage of somebody when they are drunk,” said France, who despite his noble words, stroked the back of his hand up and down England’s sides.

 

“I'm not so drunk that I won't remember this come morning. Just enough that I won't gag on your rose-scented cologne.”

 

“Ah the seduction of a Briton. If this is how the rest of your people precede lovemaking, I am astounded that you haven't all died off by now,” said France, smug as all get-out.

 

“Are we going to do this or not? If we are, let's go to your room.”

 

No more words were exchanged, at least on the way to the frog's room. They were in France, so perhaps french vibes had infected England and made him feel extra randy. More than he already had been that is.

 

The building where the dinner had taken place held one of the rooms France often stayed in. The man had many throughout his country. England hadn't been in any of them for years upon years and it was more outrageous than he'd recalled.

 

At least it was to him.

 

England preferred simple and practical decor. No need for curtains with elegant gold stitching upon red fabric, paintings and tapestries galore. Already lit candles on nearly every surface and even a statue in the corner by a chaise lounge. The bed had a canopy made of a golden fabric and dark wood. There was already a bottle of oil beside the bed, as if France had known it would be required or had summoned it using the powers of his own mind.

 

England wouldn't put it past the damned man.

 

As soon as France had slid shut the lock on his bedroom door, he began to strip out of his clothes.

 

“W-what are you doing?” asked England, voice stuttered pathetically.

 

“Getting naked. That is how this works you know,” said France, already nude somehow and stood as if on display, arms spread wide.

 

England looked away, “Y-yeah. Sure.”

 

Hesitantly he undressed, but since he was the one who asked for the encounter, he was damn well not going to back down. He was nervous, just a little. England stripped to his dark brown hose, under which were his short braies. On his chest were several tightly wrapped bandages, wound 'round and 'round. Those he would not remove, no matter how much France may complain.

 

Starting when he realized how close France had come up to him, he looked up. France still had his hair tied up with a ribbon. Stubble marked his jaw and grew just barely longer along his chin. England felt jealous, he'd always wanted to be able to grow facial hair.

 

France's fingers went and slipped just into the waistband of England's hose, tantalizing, “We won't get very far with these still on.”

 

Flushed red, England yanked on the leggings, “Fine. But the cloth on my chest stays put. If you don't like it you can go throw yourself into a lake.”

 

After he tilted his head and appeared pensive, France said, “Whatever makes you most comfortable.”

 

Tossing his clothing pile onto a decorative piece of furniture that barely looked sturdy enough to hold a child, England plopped onto the bed, mostly naked save for the bindings on his chest.

 

France cupped his hand under England’s chin and gently gripped it to tilt his head, forcing the two to meet eyes. Then France pressed his mouth down to meet England's own.

 

It was chaste, considering their state of dress, just a soft caress of lips. England placed a hand on France's chest and fingered the hair that grew there. Just thick enough to make France manly and handsome and not so much as to appear repulsive.

 

“Why the hell are you being so gentle? We are enemies,” scoffed England.

 

“Not officially. Right now we aren't personified nations. Tonight we are just two men in the privacy of a bedroom. And by the way, I refuse to make love without kissing. It is barbaric.”

 

“Fine but no other unnecessary...things. I'm not a pervert I will have you know.”

 

“Of course not cher.”

 

No more words were needed after that, though speech wouldn't have been possible through the wet fusing of their mouths. France's hand roamed everywhere, except for his chest, for which England was more grateful than he could ever have expressed. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be ready for somebody to touch there.

 

When France was just above England's genitals, he paused, made sure to get eye contact and said, “May I?”

 

Breathless from their kiss, England nodded his assent. And if France noticed his trembling, he said nothing.

 

France's fingers slipped between the soft and increasingly slippery folds, skillfully avoided the one area England knew well; a little nub of flesh that felt so good when he rubbed it. England hadn't been able to find much reading material on what exactly it was, but at that time, he didn't think it really mattered. England had no idea that rubbing the folds of skin felt good as well.

 

Holy god in heaven but it felt wonderful as France explored, slipped his index finger around. When that nub of flesh was hit, England had to bite his bottom lip to hold back a moan. He closed his eyes and tried not to wiggle too much. He didn't want to alert France to just how desperately pleasurable England found those actions.

 

So he didn't notice France move until he was right atop him. France was laying between England's legs which had somehow spread wide on their own. There was a hard length of cock poised, just nudging his entrance. It was slippery, as if France had oiled it.

 

“I'm a man dammit, I can handle it, just do it,” said England, not of sound enough mind to hate how the masculine tone of voice he'd crafted for himself melted away and became soft and effeminate.

 

Still, the Frenchman eased forward, slowly and carefully. All the gentleness in the world wouldn't have stopped the sting of pain from the entry. Yet England expected that. Knew it would happen and was glad that if anybody had to inflict pain upon him that it was France.

 

Soon though, as France moved flush to England's body, slid out and then back in, he rubbed that one spot. The exposed bump of swollen flesh that sent jolt after jolt of pleasure through England each time it was pressed against.

 

He grabbed onto France's back and dug his blunt nails in deep while he moaned.

 

France kissed, licked and nipped up and down England's neck. His earlobes, jaw, cheeks, chin. Everywhere that could be reached from their position. Grabbing hair and tugged. France thrust faster and England met the frantic pace. England wrapped his legs around France and drew the man closer.

 

The pleasure built, crested and fell to spill over England. He bit down into France's shoulder after he cried out, “Francis...oh...”

 

“Ah, oui,” whispered France, voice quivered and cock pulsed inside of England, filled his body.

 

They lay there for an amount of time neither of them could track, breathing deep in the aftermath of pleasure. The smell of each other so warm and comforting for once.

 

Soon, too soon, Francis pulled away, slid free from England's body. The Frenchman stretched languidly like a feline before looking down.

 

Then frowned.

 

England wanted to ask, 'what?'.

 

But he didn't. Instead he just closed his eyes and drifted. He knew that he shouldn't sleep, and should prepare to leave for his own room. Surely a few moments of shut-eye wouldn't harm anybody though?

 

He must have drifted off because the next thing he knew, there was a warm and wet cloth against his nether regions. England bolted upright and instantly regretted it.

 

The feeling of hot liquid flowed from his body. Francis' emissions. It was a bizarre feeling that England couldn't decide was good or bad.

 

France knelt on the bed with a small basin of steaming water and a cloth which was streaked with crimson. England snatched the washrag away and finished the job himself.

 

He didn't want to meet France's eyes and hoped the bugger would leave well enough alone.

 

Of course the man in question would do no such thing, “You were a virgin.”

 

“Sod off.”

 

Once the cloth came away clean, England dropped it into the bowl and stood up to dress. England didn't look back and focused on dressing.

 

“You were a virgin,” the voice sounded far more smug and taunting than England would have liked

 

England spun around, clutched a letter opener that had been resting along the edge of a nearby desk and pointed it at France.

 

“I told you to piss off. So what if I was? It just means that I don't sleep with every creature with a pulse like you do.”

 

“And you chose me to be your first. A very wise decision indeed. Come to me again if you'd like.”

 

Was England ever glad that the fop didn't use a word like 'deflower'? Glad enough that he slipped the small blade of the letter opener into the top of his boot instead of hurling it at France's face.

 

“I doubt I will ever consume this much alcohol again.”

 

#

 

Arthur remembered one horrible moment, a series of them really. A memory etched in his mind, never to be erased by the passing of time.

 

Joan.

 

When thinking of France and history, that one name comes up and nearly every person will understand.

 

Joan of Arc as she tends to be called in English. Jeanne in french.

 

Before she had gone on trial and before she was placed into prison, England requested to meet her. He demanded privacy and not one of his men dared to question his orders.

 

He served her some wine and a small meal in a cabin that England had procured for that very purpose. He wanted to see the woman who dressed like a man and fought as well as one.

 

“Who are you?” was England's first, not very suave query.

 

“I would have thought you'd know, since you asked me to be here,” said Joan, a tilt to her head and a smile despite her being a prisoner.

 

“Yes but why did you do all of this? There are laws against cross-dressing.”

 

Joan sipped her drink and said simply, “'Tis my duty to God, to do as He asks.”

 

She sat with so much elegance, so much power, poise and strength, that England popped from his seat, slammed his hands against the table and shouted, “Rubbish.”

 

England cringed. He had no idea why he'd yelled that. He had so far made a right fool of himself. At least Joan seemed to understand this and stayed silent.

 

She ate with vigour and England wondered if she'd been fed properly. He made a mental note to tell the soldiers escorting her to Crotoy to feed her more. England hoped they'd do as he asked once they were away from him. She seemed like a nice enough woman and was quite a fierce warrior.

 

Just as England wondered if he should try to do something to sway the government officials to go easy on her, she said it, “We are not so different, you and I?”

 

England's blood ran cold, frozen right in his veins.

 

“How so?” he asked and moved from his place in front of his chair to look out of a window.

 

“We both dress as men, but we are not.”

 

Fists balled, he put them on the window sill before him, grit his teeth and hissed, “Are you bloody daft woman? Perhaps you are insane?”

 

She didn't rise to the bait, simply uncrossed and then re-crossed her legs, “I do not know why you dress and act as you do and do not profess to understand. But we both fight as men for our countries. Do you fight for God as well? Do you pray to him?”

 

England spun around and stomped over to her and then waved a finger in her face, “My church going habits aren't any of your business. What I want to know is...did that bloody France-is...Francis tell you.?”

 

Using the blasted frogs human name was hard to remember sometimes.

 

“Francis,” said Joan, sounding wistful, “We spoke about much, including you. But gender never came up.”

 

“Did he have relations with you? He has done so with every other breathing creature since I’ve known the man.”

 

At this, the area between her brows creased and she frowned, “I am a virgin and will remain so for as long as my Lord deems fit. Francis did not push this and I actually convinced him to cease his lecherous ways so long as he wanted to be in my company as friends.”

 

“And he did as you asked?” said England, eyes widened.

 

“He did.”

 

“Perhaps you truly are doing the work of God since you clearly worked a miracle.”

 

The weight of their conversation weighed on England which forced him to sit and place his head on his knees.

 

England spoke once more, “So did your God tell you of my gender? The one of my body that is, not that of my mind? Did he happen to tell you why he did this to me?”

 

“This was not a conversation I had with the Lord. This is simply a woman's keen eye and intuition.”

 

His hands shook and his feet felt sluggish, England trudged to the door. He flung it open and hollered to the guards who lingered out of earshot of the cabin, “You may take her now.”

 

As Joan was collected, she gave him a critical look. So knowing. If she told? If she uttered a word...

 

But she didn't, not that England ever heard of at least.

 

What he did know was what happened to her while England was too much of a coward to raise his concerns over Joan's welfare. He was there, on the outskirts of the area where the fire was to be set.

 

He watched her be burnt alive, unable to voice his protest out of fear that she'd spill his secret.

 

France was there as well, he felt the other nation's presence as keenly as an extension of himself. They met eyes and England saw the flames reflected in those blue eyes. So full of...disappointment, sadness for certain. And fury.

 

England walked from the area like a dignified gentleman but once out of sight, ran like a scared animal. His people were afraid of damnation for their actions in Joan's unjust death.

 

England was afraid not for that. But for the thought that he'd upset France in too deep a way.

 

It had been war. England didn't need to apologize for the actions of war, did he?

 

Yet he still didn't sleep properly for months after that.

 

#

 

Life went on.

 

And yet France never revealed the secret. Even after all of that. Even despite the further fuelled hatred that France would rightfully have towards England after everything they two had done towards each other in the battles that later would be known as the 'Hundred Years War'.

 

Not a soul else knew. Nobody.

 

England became a privateer for his boss. There was quite a distinction of course, between the pirates and what he did. Though most common folk simply called them, pirates.

 

And he was feared. Not at first though. People didn't exactly know who he was and his crew was wont to disrespect him, subtly of course.

 

It wasn't until on of his crew sneaked into his room that England got the start of his fearsome reputation.

 

England had no idea what the man's true intentions were. Rape? Theft? Murder?

 

What England did know for sure was that the man caught England mid-change. England was naked and all of the parts, which society didn't quite consider manly, were on display. His chest bindings were even loose.

 

The man hadn't stood a chance. England grabbed his cutlass and leapt, slashed the intruding bugger's throat before a shout of alarm could arise.

 

Calmly, England resumed dressing and silently vowed to get a better lock the next time they hit land. He then grabbed the hair of the dead man, let the blood drag in a trail behind him.

 

Then England called the crew's attention. He leaned the corpse against the pole of the mast and said, “This is what happens to those who don't respect my leadership. Now one of you fuckers clean up the mess of blood on the floor.”

 

#

 

They, France and England, squabbled over the small ones in the new world. Who controlled those colonies and the vast resources therein. Nothing changed. Their battles were simply fought in a new location, over slightly different matters. The only difference came when England finally received control over young America.

 

He'd never felt so protective and caring over another being before. He'd rock the small child to sleep in his arms, stroking the soft locks of blond hair from the tot's eyes. England felt, dare he say it, maternal? Not that he felt in any way like a woman, because he wasn't.

 

Not that it stopped England from cooking for the child, cleaning the child and brushing his hair; mending the torn holes the clothes would get from America's frequent and rough playing.

 

His sweet little brother. So full of bright smiles and warm hugs. England doted on the boy. Far more than he should have, considering that eventually England was also the caretaker for young Canada. He tried not to dote on America so much around Canada in order avoid jealousies. However, England was forever forgetting about the northern nation.

 

So much so that when a grown America left to be on his own with grumbles of independence and words of hatred on his tongue, England forgot all about Canada. England was simply too upset over the loss of the boy that he considered a little brother and almost a son – even though that wasn't a term that nations tended to ever use.

 

When he wasn't planning battles and preparing for the coming war, he moped around his home up North while he drank tea and ate biscuits.

 

One day, he realized that he hadn't cleaned any cloth for his chest bindings in a while. So he went without. The time was summer and the day was hot so England wore a breezy shirt. He washed his chest cloths and hung them to dry. Then he decided to go for a swim. It had been a while, after all, and he felt the need to relax.

 

His home was away from villages and the the river was rather secluded amid the tall trees and brush. So England decided to swim naked. The river was pleasantly cool and refreshing and after a long dip, he decided to dry off on a flat rock that caught the sun nicely.

 

Perhaps he'd been too careless, since technically his men could come by at any time. However he'd asked his fae friends to keep a lookout for his soldiers. Ever since the incident on his ship as a privateer, he'd relied on his faerie friends for help.

 

It seemed, though, that England had been too specific in his wording. They didn't tell him or wake him when a certain somebody came by. The little tricksters.

 

Canada wasn't technically his soldier. And he'd forgotten about the bloody lad once more.

 

He woke up to a choking noise, and a series of barely intelligible sputtered words. Lazily he cracked an eyelid only to flush red right away and dash for his clothing. Standing off to the side of the rock England had been laying on was Canada and sported just as fierce a blush and wide violet eyes.

 

“Stop gaping your mouth like an imbecile and turn around,” said England, mostly dressed by then.

 

Canada did as he was asked, shoulders slouched and feet shuffling in the fallen pine needles on the ground.

 

England couldn't believe he'd once again forgotten he even lived with the quiet lad. The boy nearly blended in with the surroundings.

 

“Dé- Um...er...sorry. I didn't know you would be. That is to say...well...or that you are a...” whispered Canada, only half of his words audible to England.

 

“It doesn't matter. Forget what you've seen. I'm still the man you've always known,” said England,= and then marched ahead of the colony who was at the point a young man.

 

“Huh?” said Canada but England refused to answer.

 

“We'll go home and I'll make some dinner.”

 

And so England thought that was over and done with and that everything would be forgotten just like it had been with France.

 

Except for a few days later, things began to show up. Things such as a bouquet of wildflowers beside his dinner plate. Or some maple flavoured sweets wrapped in a pretty cloth.

 

He'd never really noticed Canada before, but now he felt the young man watch him every now and again. Not too often to be abnormal but enough that it had been slightly unnerving.

 

That last straw was when they went into town one day for supplies. Canada hopped off of his horse first and then stopped by England’s. He held out his hand for England as if to help him down from his horse.

 

England slapped the hand away and leapt down from his steed. He grabbed the lad by the collar and led him around to the side of a building. He yanked Canada's head down so he could hiss in his ear, “See here. I am not a lady, regardless of the physical parts you saw.”

 

Ever the shy young man, Canada looked down, to the side and bit his lip before he said, “I don't understand. You have...those parts and that means you are a woman.”

 

“But I'm a man,” said England with a tone of finality.

 

Canada's blond brows rose and knit in confusion, “But you aren't. You are a lady and a rather...”

 

Canada blushed deeper and, in a rush, said, “A rather beautiful one at that.”

 

Then with a hand placed on England's cheek, Canada pressed a chaste kiss on his lips.

 

Too stunned to do anything, England simply stood still, fists balled up at his sides. Once England came to his senses, Canada had already leaned back and looked worriedly at his feet.

 

“Do not...Look, I'm flattered alright? You are growing to be a handsome lad but I'm just not interested in you that way. I'm sure you will find somebody who will be. Somebody who isn't well over a thousand years older than you. But I need you to understand something.”

 

“Okay,” said Canada, sounding dejected.

 

“I am not a woman and you will not ever refer to me as such again. That same feeling and deep instinct you have when knowing you are your nation, I also get for knowing my gender. You and I may look human. But we aren't. We are nations. Just as I may look female but I'm not. I'm male because I know that I am deep down.”

 

Canada nodded but didn't look convinced.

 

England ran his fingers through his own shaggy locks of hair and grumbled, “Just don't tell anybody alright?”

 

“That I can do. I promise that I won't and I'll try to understand.”

 

#

 

The lad did keep his promise, but never stopped treating him as if he were more fragile than he used to be. Canada was forever apologizing for doing things out of instinct such as opening doors for England and holding out his hand to help him over puddles. England wished the boy would understand but thought that at least it was a good thing that Canada was a gentleman.

 

Eventually the war forced England away and he was thankful. It was too much. He wanted to snap at Canada but the lad was so sensitive that harsh words would be upsetting. It wasn't even as though Canada called him a woman again, because he didn't. Canada continued to refer to him as a man in the way he had before he'd seen England naked.

 

It frustrated the hell out of England though. It was why he never wanted anybody to know of his true physical gender. Because nobody would treat him the way he wanted to be treated.

 

Nobody but France.

 

#

 

Wars with France and then sex with him. Often enough to be routine. Sometimes, perhaps, their fucking would be in different positions. But England didn't allow much foreplay, no overly intimate licking or extended caressing.  
  
Just raw, hard and passionate. Sometimes Arthur even let France fuck his ass, like men would. It was embarrassing but also fairly affirming and England would walk away from such encounters sore but very satisfied.

 

After the Entente Cordiale they fucked even more often, were able to travel more easily.

 

England wished he understood how he felt. Why he began to crave the Frenchman.

 

But he had no idea of his own feelings.

 

#

 

World War Two came along. Germany took parts of France once the Armistice was signed. For a long while, France, the personified representative, managed to remain free with some of his people in London. But he couldn't remain away for long. The fact of the matter was that there was still a government in France during Nazi occupation, even if the Germans essentially ruled with a iron fist. France was drawn back to his heart in Paris.

 

And then, for a few long years, England didn't see the infuriating man. Didn't hear from him.

 

It drove England mad.

 

With want, lust.

 

Mad from just plain missing France.

 

Near the end of August, 1944, England entered Paris. That was when he started to scour the city. The search took him five days.

 

Five agonizing days of wondering where the hell France was. What had happened to him?

 

When he was about to call off his search because he was needed elsewhere and was being forced to leave, England was underground. He had nearly missed a small grotto in a wall and slipped inside. He walked down a tunnel, damp and smelling faintly rank and so dark.

 

That was when he saw him curled in a corner under a dusty blanket. His hair was matted and dirty, eyes blank. He hadn't been eating much, though there were some empty containers around him.

 

France looked up with dull blue eyes and whispered, “Angleterre?”

 

“Yes. How did you know it was me? It's dark as pitch in here.”

 

“I could see those eyebrows anywhere in any light,” rasped France, not moving out of the blanket but further under it.

 

“Git,” was all England could say in response, “You're free now. You can come out.”

 

“No. Leave. I'm ugly, scarred, filthy,” said France, peeking out from his hiding place.

 

Shutting his eyes tight, England said, “No. You aren't. You're-”

 

England grit his teeth, hating being so weak but needing to help bolster the frail creature before him. Wanted to make France feel as accepted and normal and the man made him feel.

 

“Beautiful, alright. You are still beautiful.”

 

“Ah, kind words from my handsome knight,” said France, struggling to simply push himself to standing.

 

Handsome knight? That frog always did know how to frazzle him, in the best and worst of ways. England jumped forth to catch France and prevent him from falling, trying not to think about those too thin arms faint shaking from hunger and illness.

 

“Carry me out in your arms, s'il vous plaît?”

 

And England did just that when the bugger passed out. He tried to make himself feel inconvenienced by it.

 

All England truly felt was relief that his friend and greatest rival was safe. He would make sure France received the best of care until he was better.

 

And began to feel the smallest inkling that he may be in love.

 

#

 

By 2014 England even knew what others like himself were called.

 

Transgender.

 

England found it nice to know that he wasn't alone. Though he was likely the only nation who was born the way he was. Even Hungary stopped dressing like a boy and had been acting like a woman and wearing girls clothing since.

 

It seemed rather unfair but for years England hadn't had much time to think about it.

 

The 20th century had been busy. Two great wars, a cold war, political tension thick enough to cut with a knife. There hadn't been time to think too hard or to be lonely. Just work.

 

Yet eventually the last vestiges of his empire crumbled. Colonies left him as did his siblings, though his brothers had rarely ever spoken to him anyway.

 

All that was left was an old and dingy home on the outskirts of London. Falling apart and mold in the corners of the basement. Dust on high up shelves – but why did it matter. There was simply loneliness because there was nobody he could truly trust.

 

Nobody except for –

 

There was a knock upon the front door.

 

Sliding his feet into his plaid patterned slippers that had a hole in one toe, England shuffled his way downstairs. He didn't look out the peephole, it was too close to tea-time and he didn't think clearly.

 

France leaned in the stone archway around the front door. He held out a bottle of wine and a rose. If it were anybody else, England would feel offended. As it was, he still may grumble at the Frenchman, he wasn't sure yet. However France gave roses to everybody man or woman.

 

England took the booze and tossed the rose onto the small shoe rack. He ignored France’s sputter of protest over the rose. The frog could make the damned flowers appear from thin air anyway so it wasn't as if England had just wasted some grand sum of money by discarding it.

 

France had grabbed the rose anyway and began to rifle through England's cupboards to look for a vase, which he then filled with water.

 

“Go ahead and make yourself at home why don't you,” snarked England, filling up his kettle and setting it on the stove to heat.

 

“Your home needs the splash of colour this flower will give. It is so dreary. I am starting to fall into a state of depression just being in London,” said France, setting the vase and flower in the middle of a breakfast table and then he wilted dramatically against a nearby counter.

 

“So then why are you here?” asked England, spooning some tea into the tea pot's infuser.

 

“Date me.”

 

Snorting out a small laugh, England set up the mugs. France never asked for tea, but would always happily drink a cuppa whenever he came over. He got out the milk and sugar.

 

France got right out in front of England as he tried to walk to the table, startled him and made him jump. Lumps of sugar flew out of the bowl and onto the ground.

 

“Shit. Why did you go and do that for? Ruining tea-time my tea time. That's probably why you're here.”

 

“So will you agree to go on a date with me?” said France, taking the carton of milk and putting it on the table but not helping pick up the sugar, of course, the lazy jerk.

 

“You were serious?” said England, dumping the cubes into the rubbish bin and narrowing his gaze onto France, “Why? What's your motive? What are you plotting?”

 

“No schemes. No plots. I just wish to take you out for a meal.”

 

Once the table was set, England poured the drinks, “Why do you have to take me out? I'm not some-”

 

Holding up a hand, France said, “That is not why. I am asking you because if I hadn't, we wouldn't ever get to go on a date. You wouldn't have asked.”

 

England sipped his tea and refused to answer. Instead he asked, “So why now? How many centuries have we known each other and you ask to court me now in the 21st century?”

 

“Well we do still make love every now and again and besides, I did ask you to marry me in '56 did I not?”

 

“For a daft reason. Seriously. Proposing to somebody for that purpose,” said England, rolling his eyes.

 

“There was some pressure from my boss. But it wouldn't have been half bad, would it?”

 

A single risen brow was all England did to answer that question.

 

France prodded more after biting into a biscuit and swallowing it with a grimace, “I wouldn't have been that horrible of husband.”

 

“Yes you would have. People would judge you for not being monogamous,” said England, sipped his tea and then added, “And don't even try to feed me the bullshit that you'd pledge yourself to me forever. That word means a hell of a lot more to us than to humans.”

 

France let one corner of his mouth to curl up and slitted his eyes. It wasn't a sneer because that word seemed too crude to use for the seductive and yet condescending look France gave England.

 

“You would want to live a fairy-tale life where you are bound to just one person?” asked France, “How sweet.”

 

“No.”

 

France looked up, eyes wide. Must not have expected the vehemence with which England said the word 'no'.

 

“What?”

 

“If I were ever to be with you, I wouldn't want to expect monogamy. It isn't who you are.”

 

Fumbling to avoid dropping his cup that was mostly empty, France swallowed, face pale, and repeated like a broken record, “What?”

 

England reached over and closed the Frenchman's jaw which hung open, “Close your mouth, you'll catch flies. And of course I wouldn't tie you down to me. Just like you don't treat me like a-”

 

Gulping past the thickness in his throat, England whispered out, “-woman. I wouldn't stifle you in a manner which you would dislike.”

 

“Oh,” said France, for once rendered rather speechless and with some sort of shine of adoration in his eyes.

 

England sneered. He revelled in being the one to shut the frog up for once.

 

#

 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, England let out a shaky breath. His hands drifted along the folds and barely there knots of his chest bindings. France sat behind him, gently stroking England's hair and kissing the back of his neck.

 

“You don't have to do this,” said France

 

Yes he did. He'd been 'dating' France for a few months by then. They'd had sex as usual a few times. However there were things England didn't let France do.

 

He'd never revealed his chest to anybody on purpose. Never allowed himself to willingly become so vulnerable.

 

So, with a firmness and a finality of his actions, he slid the last of the fabric off. Without yet facing France, he walked to a nearby chair, set the fabric down and then slipped off his briefs.

 

And revealed his entire naked body to the one man he could trust.

 

The breasts on his chest, blessedly tiny and easy to hide. The slight female curve to his hips that had a bit of padding on them that had grown from relative inactivity from not participating in wars as often this century. The slit between his legs that led to his genitals (he hated the word 'pussy'), and the soft blond curls that tried to hide it. The legs that never grew more than silky blond hairs, his smooth skinned and hairless chest and body.

 

He was not a manly man like France, in all his hairy chested glory and stubbly jawed face.

 

France walked up slowly and England couldn't determine what the look was that was on the other's face. Was France now rethinking how he thought of England? Did he now consider England to be a woman?

 

What would England do if that was the case?

 

He closed his eyes tight and balled his fists, awaiting the judgement.

 

“Je t'adore,” whispered France, running his fingers over England's cheek, “Tu es très beau.”

 

England leaned into the touch, “Don't lie to me.”

 

“I am not. You are wonderful.”

 

England cracked his eyelids enough to see the man standing in front of him. France had a smile, a true smile, on his face. His eyes were bright and lusty.

 

France cupped England’s chin and said, “Let me show you how amazing I can make you feel.”

 

After being led to the edge of the bed, England was gently pressed down to lay. He was sure even his toes were flushed with embarrassment by that point. He wished that he could say something but he knew that if he spoke, it would be sniping and cruel. He didn't want to ruin the mood, so he stayed quiet in that moment and just let France do the talking.

 

“Is there anywhere that you don't want me to touch?” said France, hovering over England, licking in the dip between his collarbone.

 

“I trust you,” whispered England, barely managing to say the words.

 

France kissed down his chest, between the small swell of breasts and moved slowly, as if he were afraid of spooking England. France's hands fit perfectly over them, rubbing both breasts before moving his fingers to roll each nipple causing a low moan to slip from England's mouth. France brought his hot and wet tongue down to one of the pink tips and licked.

 

Then, after looking back into England's eyes to make sure he was alright, France sucked a nipple into his mouth.

 

Had those always been so sensitive? England didn't know.

 

All thoughts were jarred from his mind when France licked downwards. Down over England's abdomen and what had been defined abs that were now soft from not being worked. Past his navel, swirling his tongue inside the small dip. Kissing lower and lower.

 

England's lower lip trembled and didn't know if he should push France away.

 

Yet when France looked up, met eyes and asked without words if he could continue, England nodded. He could do this. He wanted this.

 

France had hurt him in battle, fierce and punishing in centuries past. He'd slashed at his legs, arms with a sword, pushed him down into the ground to shove his face in the mud and suffocated him. But when they came together like this, there was nothing but respect. England trusted France with his body in this way.

 

A tongue tip played just over the outer lips, teasing. It dipped inside after a moment of this, scorching against England's slippery skin. Up and flicking against that wonderful little nub that caused pleasure to jolt through his body. Back down and inside of him, tongue thrusting in and out.

 

France slid two crooked fingers inside of England and resumed licking and sucking the centre of his pleasure. His hips bucked and he bit the side of his palm to avoid crying out.

 

France lifted his head long enough to say, “There is nobody here Angleterre. Cry out as loud as you want.”

 

So he did, letting loose cries and moans into his bedroom feeling his orgasm crash over him. England grabbed France's hair and clutched it tight in his hand and his back arched off the mattress.

 

Boneless, he collapsed back on the bed, panting and whimpering, eyelids half closed and watched Francis slid home inside of him.

 

England wrapped his legs around France and they rocked slowly. Tender caressing of skin moving to clutching of hands. Deep kisses that tasted like England's own essence. It never became rough. Just a panting, shaking and then finally a fast thrusting end for the both of them.

 

France collapsed to the bed beside England, both too spent to fetch cloths to clean themselves. England just rested his head on France's chest.

 

No more words were needed. Not a whispered 'thank you', nor their usual bickering. They just held each other, drifting off.

 

And just as he fell under the deep spell of sleep he heard, “Je t'aime Arthur.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I always see France as a very considerate lover. I also think that he'd be able to understand England's gender identity without much trouble and always uses the proper pronouns. So sweet and romantic France. :3 I awww'd a whole bunch of times during this.
> 
> Also, I felt sorry for Canada's little puppy-love crush on England, even if he didn't fully understand what England was trying to tell him. I really wanted to hug my country when England turned him down. But I'm sure he got his happy ending too *cough*AmeCan*cough*. But to each their own OTP really, RusCan, PruCan, UkrCan (is that the term for those two?), OtherCan? I should stop rambling.


End file.
